


Musth

by ElwritesFanworks



Series: Fics that Might Ruin Childhoods [1]
Category: Babar - Jean de Brunhoff | Laurent de Brunhoff
Genre: Affection, Anal Sex, Animal Instincts, Animal Traits, Dominance, Elephants, Fluff and Smut, Gland Kink, I'm Going to Hell, Kissing, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-Human Genitalia, Scent Kink, Scent Marking, Scents & Smells, Sex with Sentient Animals, Spit As Lube, Urination, Weird Biology, Why Did I Write This?, internalized colonialism/civilization-savagery dichotomy, my attempt at species-accurate porn, sheaths, trunk kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 16:20:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3256439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElwritesFanworks/pseuds/ElwritesFanworks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cornelius is in heat. Pompadour is a good friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Musth

**Author's Note:**

> I've been watching a lot of shows from my childhood, and remembered how when I was a kid I'm pretty sure I had a thing for either Cornelius or Pompadour. Maybe both. (I've been trash since birth.) So naturally the thing to do was to write about elephants fucking each other.
> 
> Anyway. Yeah. Sorry if this ruins your childhood memories...

* * *

King Babar was annoyed.

“What can be keeping Cornelius?” the young monarch said aloud. “He’s normally very punctual. I can’t think of a reason for him to be late to this meeting. I did specifically tell you both to be here at ten o’clock sharp, didn’t I?”

Pompadour nodded.

“Did Cornelius seem under the weather? Could he be sick?”

The bureaucrat shrugged.

“Anything is possible, sire. Perhaps, if you’d permit it, we could postpone this meeting long enough for me to go and check on the old fellow. For all we know, he may simply have overslept.”

Babar frowned.

“Yes, I suppose that’s best. Thank goodness this isn’t an urgent meeting.”

“Indeed, your highness.”

The child king decided to join his young friends in a game of tennis, while Pompadour went off to investigate. When at last he reached Cornelius’s room, he wrapped on the door with his trunk.

“Cornelius? Cornelius, are you awake?”

“Keep your bloody distance, Pompadour,” came a snarled reply. Pompadour’s eyes widened so much that he nearly lost his monocle.

“Cornelius! What on earth has gotten into you? Is something wrong?”

He heard footsteps, as if Cornelius was furiously pacing back and forth behind the door.

“His Majesty requests your presence – I won’t take no for an answer,” Pompadour stated with finality. He heard Cornelius curse colorfully – something terribly out of character for the usually composed older male – and the door finally opened enough for him to see the old bull’s face.

With no barrier between them, Pompadour was immediately assaulted by the mingling scents of musk and urine. It didn’t take more than that to alert him to the problem. Cornelius fanned his ears and glowered at him, and Pompadour swallowed – like this, his colleague was profoundly intimidating. They both knew the danger he was in – knew that, when enraged, Cornelius could easily gore him through – especially given that Pompadour’s own peculiarly tuskless face left him without a primary means of defense.

“Get out of here, Pompadour,” Cornelius warned, eyes wild, temporal glands draining down his cheeks.

“And leave you alone, in this condition? Absolutely not. Heaven forbid, His Majesty sends someone else to fetch you and you overpower them and go off on a rampage. Let me in.”

“Pompadour –”

“If you want me to leave, you’ll have to throw me out,” Pompadour said, determined, voice wavering with fear, betraying his nervousness. Cornelius looked for one horrible moment as though he would not only forcibly eject him from the room, but also knock him down and trample him to pieces, but finally he acquiesced, and stepped aside. Pompadour hurried past, shutting and locking the door behind him.

Turning to face his elder, Pompadour now saw the extent of Cornelius’s condition. He’d tried to dress himself in his military uniform, but had only managed to get the jacket half on. He hadn’t bothered with his trousers, and his legs were damp and streaked with urine, which was dripping steadily out of his sheath. Up close, he positively _reeked_ , and each time he fanned his ears, the smell assaulted Pompadour, thick, heady, and deeply distracting.

“What are you hoping to accomplish by barging in on me at a time like this?” the older male growled.  Pompadour could hear the note of embarrassment in his voice, even with the aggressive edge to his speech. Pompadour cringed in sympathy. Cornelius was an elephant with impeccable manners and bearing – he always carried himself like a true gentleman. To fall victim to his baser nature like this was sadly inevitable, as it was for any male after reaching physical maturity, but Pompadour knew from his own experience that it was an uncomfortable period – a reminder of earlier days before Celesteville and civilization. The psychological anguish was compounded by the sudden spike in sexual appetite, and the deep, throbbing pain caused by the swelling of the temporal glands near the eyes, which drained constantly. He touched the tip of his trunk to Cornelius’s face without thinking, the comforting gesture making the elder bull flap his ears and flinch as the delicate pressure was applied to his swollen visage. Pompadour let his trunk drift downwards, circling one of Cornelius’s thick tusks. The contact, which Pompadour had hoped would aid in placating the male, only seemed to agitate him.

“Go, Pompadour. Please. You’re not safe here,” Cornelius said with difficulty, visibly fighting to remain clear-headed in the wake of a biochemical onslaught. Pompadour knew it, but he also knew that if he left Cornelius alone, he was condemning his friend to a great suffering. Males in musth wouldn’t so much as eat, would think of nothing but breeding and fighting. Suppose Pompadour retreated and Cornelius starved to death? Or worse still, escaped his room? Everyone in the palace would be in danger of losing their lives if the second case were to prove true.

“I won’t leave you,” he said softly, gently petting the older male’s trunk with his own. Cornelius tossed his head and stomped his feet, anger and desperation waging war in his eyes. Pompadour was at a loss of what to do, torn between flight, fight, and something else entirely. Could it be that submission was his best bet?

He waited for instinct to guide him, but found himself coming up short. Cornelius seemed just as behaviourally adrift. Pompadour wondered if perhaps they’d both lost too much of their natural selves, become _too human_. The thought surprised him with how sad it made him feel.

At last, sluggishly, he moved into action. He set a glacial pace, winding his trunk around Cornelius’s, circling and re-circling the appendage, eyes downcast. He felt immensely self-conscious, and was sure it showed in his posture. Perhaps it was that look of meekness that turned the tide, perhaps not, but regardless, Cornelius relaxed minutely, allowing Pompadour to slip the end of his trunk into the older bull’s mouth.

A kiss. And then another. Pompadour shifted closer. The smell was overwhelming now. He spoke as his trunk traced lips and teeth.

“If you don’t want me to stay, say it once more. I will leave you here and have Troubadour arrange to barricade you in.”

Cornelius swallowed, mouth moving around the trunk. Pompadour pulled it away so he could speak.

“No. Stay,” he breathed, reaching out with his own trunk, pressing it to the tuskless male’s lips. Pompadour nodded and returned to the task at hand.

They kissed in silence for a while. Pompadour marvelled at Cornelius’s self-control. He’d been genuinely worried that he’d simply be stripped and taken, but even now, Cornelius was an elephant of honor. His age no doubt helped somewhat – he didn’t have the energy or stamina of a younger bull. Still, it was Pompadour who first let his trunk drift to push open Cornelius’s unbuttoned military jacket. He stroked over his chest and belly, taking in the wrinkled, aged skin, the sheer strength in the muscles of the strong, sturdy body. His trunk roamed further southwards, brushing over Cornelius’s piss-soaked sheath, making the older male inhale sharply, widening his stance.

This was familiar enough. Pompadour, for all that he kept his private life private, certainly had his fair share of sexual encounters over the years. He had never been drawn to cows the way most other males were, so he’d contented himself with the company of fellow bulls, or the touch of his own trunk. In any case, he was not put off by the engorgement of Cornelius’s organ as it grew to its full size. He swallowed, shaking with anticipation when Cornelius tugged impatiently at his waistcoat, and it took all his coordination to divest himself quickly of his clothes and wig, placing them out of harm’s way before reaching once more for Cornelius’s thick length. Cornelius mimicked the gesture, and Pompadour’s eyes fluttered shut, mouth falling open in pleasure.

It had been a long time for both of them, that much was clear, and the intensity of musth made it even more urgent. Patience fading, Cornelius passed his trunk down along Pompadour’s back, tracing his spine. Pompadour let himself be pushed to the floor, felt the insistent prodding of Cornelius’s tusks as he made his intentions clear. Pompadour presented his rear to the older male, knowing full well there would be pain to follow. He was surprised when the tip of Cornelius’s trunk slipped against his hole, slick with a copious coating of saliva. Cornelius rubbed him there, doing his best to ease the way before his heat got the better of him and he nudged forward, breaching the younger male’s opening with the tip of his phallus.

Pompadour braced himself as Cornelius mounted him, wincing in spite of the spit. He tried to distract himself, pulling on himself with his trunk, listening to the desperate edge to Cornelius’s voice as he pushed all the way in.

“My tusks!” he groaned hoarsely, and Pompadour keened in response, body shuddering in response to each thrust. His own organ was fully extended and dripping with arousal, and his own fluids made touching himself smooth and pleasurable. It still hurt more than he’d have liked, but even that was good. It was familiar, and hot, and wild – so terribly wild. Memories surfaced of previous bulls and previous ruts and the smells of moist earth and humid, jungle air. Fucking in the dirt, like savages, like _animals,_ and Pompadour’s eyes shot open at that, because he’d not realized he’d missed anything from those days, let alone _that._

Cornelius surprised him by bellowing and going off inside in one, two, three scalding pulses. Pompadour gave up trying to tug himself to completion and simply ground down against the plush palace carpet, which rasped and burned against his skin in a way that made him see stars. He spent with a cry and collapsed under Cornelius’s weight, eyes sliding shut.

He stunk. They both did. He shifted in discomfort, not enjoying the full feeling of Cornelius’s seed in his bowels. He was about to go searching for a bath when Cornelius regained enough energy to pull him close, trunk circling Pompadour’s own, kissing softly. He was sated, but only for now. He had the rest of his heat still ahead of him.

 _Well, I’ll just have to tend to him throughout, then,_ the bureaucrat thought.

“Cornelius,” he said softly, nudging the older male. Cornelius rumbled in response.

“Cornelius, I’m afraid I have to go freshen up and speak to His Majesty. But I’ll be back to see you as soon as I can. Promise me you won’t break out of here and go rogue on the palace grounds.”

Cornelius nodded wearily, still recovering from his orgasm.

Pompadour extricated himself, dressed, and hastily retreated to his quarters, whereupon he washed and put on some fresh clothes. He then sought out the young king on the tennis court.

“Sire, I’m afraid Cornelius is indisposed. He shan’t be able to attend the meeting after all.”

“Well, then I guess I might as well give you the day off,” Babar decided.

“Sire?”

“I can’t have the meeting with only one of you. Besides, if he’s as ill as you say, you should be with him. You’re one of his closest friends.”

Pompadour beamed, nodding his agreement.

“Thank you, Sire! I will be sure to reschedule the meeting once he’s well.”

“No problem. See you later, Pompadour,” Babar said, before turning back to his friends. “Okay Arthur – best two out of three?”

Soon the two teams were back in play, and Pompadour was back at Cornelius’s door. He was let in easily this time, and took up his place in Cornelius’s embrace as though they’d been mates for years.

“You’re a better friend than I deserve,” Cornelius admitted quietly. Pompadour shook his head, smiling.

“Oh, come off it. I enjoyed myself just as much as you did.”

Cornelius chuckled at that, and Pompadour wound their trunks together, and they stayed like that, close and calm, and drifted off to sleep.


End file.
